


the right one's suspicious and the left one wants my love

by soldmyscars



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Canon Divergent, Cuddling & Snuggling, M/M, Oh Dear, Schmoop, Sexual Content, and nothing bad ever happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 06:45:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1678613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soldmyscars/pseuds/soldmyscars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>mickey is a stealth snuggler.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the right one's suspicious and the left one wants my love

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [celui de droite est suspicieux et celui de gauche veut mon amour](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4055368) by [wheres-mickey (peijou)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peijou/pseuds/wheres-mickey)



> basically, four times mickey shows affection by sneaking his way into it and one time he shows it on purpose. ♥
> 
> i've been having a bad week and i wrote this to cheer myself up. it's completely self-indulgent. it was supposed to be a 5+1 thing but it ended up being a 4+1 thing. /le shrug
> 
> these are set very loosely in the first three seasons of the show. 
> 
> the title comes from [amazing eyes](http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=vBCvwzTXDWY) by good old war, which i recommend listening to!

1.

"Nah, man, you're doin' it all wrong. You gotta go _a_ , _x_ , left swing, _b_ , _b_ , right swing, _a_ ," Mickey says. "That's how you put that boss in the ground."

He makes an impatient sound when Ian messes it up again, fingers jabbing at the controller's buttons in the wrong order and not fast enough to escape the grenades. His player, a guy in army camo with bulging biceps and cropped hair, dies on the screen in a bloody explosion of skin and bone and guts.

Ian hits the pause button and turns to face Mickey. "Why don't _you_ do it then, if you're so good?" He holds out the controller for Mickey to take. He's having fun, even if his ego is slightly bruised. The fact that in real life he knows he could handle a fight like that keeps him from taking the kick to his confidence seriously.

To his surprise, Mickey doesn't yank the controller from his hands. "Don't be a pussy, Firecrotch." He leans into Ian's space, a line of heat along Ian's side. "Restart it. I'll help ya."

Ian swallows, throat dry. He resets the level.

Mickey is silent next to him during the first part of the battle, watching the screen closely and occasionally glancing down at Ian's fingers. Three minutes in he nods to himself. "Ah, see, this is where you're messin' up," he says. His lips are right by Ian's ear, breath warm, and Ian tries to keep his attention focused on the game. 

"What do I do?" he asks. It comes out a little shaky.

"Remember what I said?" When Ian doesn't reply Mickey huffs a laugh. He puts his hands over Ian's on the controller, guiding his fingers to the right buttons. "Right, there you go. Now you're gonna take a left swing— yeah, that's it. Now _b_ — uh huh. Good boy."

Ian flushes at the praise.

Mickey's hands are smaller than his, but they're strong, and surprisingly gentle when they want to be. They're messy with cuts and scrapes – some old and scabbing over and some that look fresh – and his thumbs are callused, but the insides of his wrists feel smooth in contrast.

Somehow, Ian defeats the boss successfully, and Mickey grins. "Yeahhh. Take that, bitch! How do you like that?" he crows, and Ian grins too, though he feels a victory for a different reason.

It's disappointing when Mickey drops his hands, but before Ian can mourn their loss too much he realizes Mickey is still as close to him as he can be. He doesn't move back to his side of the couch. He stays there, nestled into Ian, until Iggy and Tony barge in the door and he springs away like he's been shot.

  


2.

Ian is sleeping.

Or he _was,_ until an ambulance passing by in the distance woke him up. Ian isn't usually a very light sleeper (hard to be in a house of six and a neighbourhood where gunshots and car alarms going off are commonplace) but sirens have always made him jumpy.

Mickey isn't making any noise, which immediately clues Ian in that he's not sleeping either. He's trying to pretend he is, though, which is... weird. Ian listens to him taking deep, even breaths, carefully controlled.

Normally he snores. Not loud – Ian doesn't need to wear earplugs or anything like that – but every few minutes a little whistling noise will leave his nostrils, and he'll snuffle into whatever's he's resting his head on, whether it's a couch cushion or his folded arms or the floor. 

Right now they're both lying on their sides, heads on separate pillows and bodies about a foot apart. They decided to crash at Ian's after a night of heavy drinking at a kegger hosted by one of Lip's friends. Ian invited Mickey along with the promise of free booze, and that's all he'd needed to say to convince him to come. By the end of the night they could barely stand and passed out as soon as they stumbled up the stairs.

Ian can feel a faint throbbing in his temples and an ache at the base of his skull, the sign of an oncoming hangover just waiting to crash down, but it hasn't hit yet. He should probably go fetch them a jug of water and some ibuprofen so they won't be in so much pain in the morning, but he's too tired to get up. His wristwatch, which has a glow in the dark setting (one that Mickey laughed at when he first saw and called him a "fuckin' lameass" for) tells him it's only three o'clock in the morning.

Ian blinks blearily, stifling a yawn. He doesn't want to pass out again, not yet, but it's getting hard to keep his eyes open. He contemplates murmuring something into the dark, breaking the silence to get Mickey's attention, but he's too curious about the reason behind the ruse and doesn't want to spook Mickey into jumping up and leaving him. Drunk Mickey is a lot more willing to fall asleep next to him than sober Mickey is, after all.

Then something happens that makes all thoughts of sleep Ian has leave like they've been zapped away. He watches with wide eyes growing wider as Mickey slowly starts to inch himself backward on the mattress. Towards him. Mickey freezes when the bed frame creaks, holding his breath, and when he glances over his shoulder Ian quickly shuts his eyes. He parts his lips, jaw slack and exhaling from his mouth, and feels more than hears Mickey sigh in relief.

It takes another forty-five seconds that Ian counts in his head before the sheets start to rustle again. Mickey keeps coming closer and closer until, finally, he stops moving. Ian opens his eyes. He thanks god that he's still half-drunk and calm enough that he can control his pulse from running like a wild rabbit, otherwise he's sure Mickey would notice and figure out he's awake.

Now they're almost touching, from hips to shoulders, barely a centimetre between them. Ian figures out what Mickey's doing, and if he weren't here firsthand to witness it he probably wouldn't believe it.

Mickey is trying to cuddle with him. Mickey is trying to _spoon_ with him. He wants Ian to hold him.

Ian's expression softens. Tentatively, but not too tentatively, Ian lifts his arm and brings it around Mickey, pulling him back against his chest, palm finding its place over his ribs. One of his legs bends and moves to slot between Mickey's, like he's stretching to get more comfortable, and he let's out a sleepy little rumble against the downy soft hairs at Mickey's nape.

Mickey's reaction is incredible. He sighs again, all the tension leaving his body in a kind of boneless way Ian's never seen. Ian watches the side of his face, sees his cheek bulge a little, and knows that he's smiling. Ian smiles too, breathing him in.

His heart stutters when Mickey grabs onto his forearm, like he's making sure Ian won't try and pull away from him.

With Mickey like this, vulnerably unguarded in his arms, Ian feels a surge of protectiveness rush through him and thinks _no, I'm not going to let you go._

  


3.

It's a Friday afternoon and they're riding on the bus. It's packed like a tin of sardines, bodies crowding Ian and Mickey on either side. All the seats are taken so they're forced to stand, trying not to elbow anyone in the process. It happens a few times anyway, and Ian smiles apologetically when he can. He doesn't feel as sorry as he acts, especially when he gets a middle finger for his trouble, but unlike some he has manners he knows how to use. 

Mickey's in front of him, hand clamped on the back of a seat and scowl in place, mouth pulled downwards sullenly. Ian wants to tease Mickey for pouting, but getting slugged doesn't sound like a lot of fun right now.

Unfortunately it ends up being too cute not to laugh at, and a small chuckle escapes him before he can stop it. 

"What?" Mickey grunts, eyebrows jumping towards his hairline. Already on the defensive. Typical.

Ian shakes his head and presses his lips together, fighting a grin. "Nothing," he says. "Couple more stops until ours." 

Mickey squints at him suspiciously for a moment before he looks away and sighs, irritable. "Yeah, thank fuck for that. I need a smoke."

"Mmm," Ian agrees. A drag or two would be nice. His pack is empty, but he'll bum it off Mickey.

Sharing a cigarette, passing it back and forth, is the closest thing he's going to get to a kiss in public. Not that he minds all that much. Getting to watch Mickey's lips wrap around the filter his mouth had been on, still a bit damp from his spit, always makes something hot and possessive curl in his gut.

They're only a few inches apart, so Ian has to tilt his head down to meet Mickey eyes, swaying slightly with the rocking of the bus as it speeds along and adjusting his grip on the handhold hanging from the ceiling. Ian remembers the time when he and Mickey were nearly the same height, and he'll admit he kind of enjoys the way he towers over him a little bit now. Makes it easier to push him around when they're fucking, too.

Mickey isn't paying attention to him anymore, glaring at the floor instead and knocking his boot against the metal bar by their feet, so Ian decides to take the time Mickey's distracted to get his fill – to just _look_ at him, uninterrupted for once. From his tattooed knuckles to his arms, to his collarbone peeking out of the vee of his brown sweater, to the column of his neck and the curve of his jaw. His lips. The slightly crooked slope of his nose, no doubt from a previous break. His blue, blue eyes, hidden beneath his eyelids. His eyelashes fanned out along his pale cheeks.

When he blinks, they remind Ian of hummingbird wings. They're his most delicate feature – not that Mickey would appreciate Ian referring to anything about him as _delicate_ , but Mickey can't hear his thoughts – and light in color, curiously, catching the sun from the window and reflecting back golden brown, almost blond.

It's rare that he gets to see Mickey up close like this, face to face, and now Micky can't run away or turn his back on Ian, even if he wanted to. They're both trapped, but Ian is right where he wants to be.

Ian's gaze is on Mickey's eyebrows, the most expressive pair he's ever encountered, when the bus lurches to a stop. More people pile on than off, to everyone's dismay, and in the effort to make more room Mickey gets shoved forward by the pack. His loud, "What the fuck!" goes unheard in the noise and Ian suddenly finds himself with a very grumpy Milkovich thrown his way.

They end up in a sort of quasi-hug, Mickey's arms going around him when he trips, fingers clutching at his hoodie to steady himself. Ian laughs at the look on his face, turning red and flustered beneath his anger, and Mickey kicks him in the shin for it.

"Ow," Ian complains, wincing.

"Yeah well, deserved it, shithead," Mickey mutters.

Mickey doesn't let go – he can't, really, they're sandwiched in so tight – and when Ian brings his free hand to the small of Mickey's back, Mickey tucks his head under Ian's chin in resignation and adds, "This is so fuckin' dumb. Never takin' the bus with you again, Gallagher."

His words are muffled, and despite their content, he doesn't seem half as grumpy as before.

It's crazy, but Ian thinks he even feels Mickey press a smile against his neck.

He must be imagining it.

  


4.

Ian likes being a top. He likes the control. He likes the way he can set the pace. He likes sliding into Mickey's tight, hot ass and he _loves_ seeing how much Mickey enjoys taking his dick. He likes that Mickey likes being bossed around a little, regardless of whether he'll admit it.

He gets off on making Mickey lose his mind in how good it feels to get fucked by him, to beg for more, harder, faster, fucking _please_. When he's fingering Mickey and he crooks his fingers _just right_ and he's awarded with a moan that turns into a whimper as he eagerly fucks himself back onto them. When he's the one making Mickey cry because he eats him out so good and for so long that he can't take it. 

He loves what a needy bottom Mickey is, and how unashamed he is about it. How he'll drop his pants and bend over before Ian's even pulled his shirt over his head, looking over his shoulder with impatience and hot desperation. How he doesn't seem to realize how sexy he is, just that he wants what he wants and he's going to get it.

Occasionally, like now, he'll give Mickey the illusion of being in charge.

It starts off with Mickey straddling his cock and sinking down on to it until he's got Ian all the way inside of him. He does this fast and unforgivingly, and both sets of their toes curl. Mickey smirks when Ian groans, and rotates his hips in a slow, torturous grind. Ian tries to grab hold of his hips to lift him up, so he'll _move_ , but Mickey grabs his wrists and forces them above his head.

"I say you could do that?" he asks, voice hitching slightly at the end as Ian uses his position to thrust up against him, aiming for his prostate.

Ian looks up at him and echoes his smirk. "You didn't say I couldn't," he replies, and Mickey growls.

It's just the right amount of goading to get Mickey to start riding him, and Mickey doesn't disappoint. He starts working himself up and down at a brutal pace, not giving either of them time to breathe. Somewhere into the two minute mark Mickey's smirk falls away. His grip goes slack and he seems to forget about putting Ian in his place and just starts concentrating on the feeling of Ian's cock sliding in and out of him. He _gives in_ , lost in it, eyebrows furrowing deeper with every thrust. He bites his lip hard and Ian knows he's stifling noises that want to break free.

With his newfound freedom Ian immediately takes the reins back, grabbing Mickey's hips and planting his feet flat on the mattress as he starts pounding into him.

It doesn't take long after that. Mickey comes with a high, "Fuck, ah, _fuck!_ " and shoots all over his stomach. Untouched.

The sight of him and when he tightens around Ian sets him off too and he follows Mickey with a hissed moan of his name. He keeps thrusting through the aftershocks until Mickey whines, oversensitive, and he slows to a stop.

Mickey slumps down on top of him, panting, skin sweaty. His weight is heavy, but Ian likes it. He pets Mickey's thighs as they come down and Mickey allows it, probably because he's half-dead. Ian feels pretty satisfied with himself.

When he tries to slip out of Mickey, going soft, Mickey tightens around him again, keeping him inside. Ian's fingers pause in his petting. He blinks. He tries to catch Mickey's eyes but his face is turned away from Ian, eyes closed.

"Let me fuckin' recover for a minute," he mumbles.

Mickey's never needed time to "recover" before. Usually he rolls right off Ian and starts pulling his boxers on, or he'll get up to fetch his smokes.

"Okay," Ian says softly.

Ian likes the gentle side of sex, too. The gentle things they _don't_ do, never have. He likes taking care of people. He likes providing comfort.

Ian hears the change in Mickey's breathing. Looks down at him again. He's fallen asleep, mouth parted.

Ian spends a long time staring at him in his afterglow buzz, revelling in the way they're still joined together, and how peaceful Mickey looks.

He drifts off in a state of complete contentment.

  


+1

After receiving a cryptic text from Mickey to meet him at an unfamiliar address at nine, Ian's been debating whether this is just a booty call or something more all day. He gets so distracted at work that Linda sends him home early and Lip teases him for checking his phone fifty-seven times to reread the text. He doesn't get his hopes up – tells himself not to – until he gets to the address and sees the spread Mickey's set up and he almost trips over his own feet in surprise.

They're up on the roof of the abandoned apartment complex. There's a half-empty bottle of Jack and a crumpled bag of burgers and fries between them. There's a threadbare blanket spread out underneath them. There aren't any candles or flowers, of course, but it's clear Mickey went through a lot of effort to do this and Ian is so charmed he thinks his happiness could light up the city. Mickey ducks his head and waves away his awe.

They shoot the shit for a while, and Mickey wolfs his food down like he hasn't had a proper meal in years (he probably hasn't, actually). Ian takes his time. It's a weak attempt to stretch out this companionable moment, to make it last longer. He doesn't want this to end.

Mickey steals glances at him all night when he thinks Ian isn't looking. He licks his lips and bites them repeatedly and fumbles to light his cigarette. He's nervous about something.

Ian pretends not to notice and waits patiently for whatever it is Mickey wants to say. He leans back on his elbows and tilts his head up to look at the sky. His mouth quirks in a smile when he thinks of the irony of what they're doing. _Jesus Christ, you wanna spread a blanket out and look for shooting stars next?_

Mickey takes an audible breath and Ian redirects his gaze. Mickey is staring straight at him, determined and unwavering for the first time tonight. His eyes flick down to Ian's mouth and then back up to his eyes a few times, and Ian gets a swooping sensation in his stomach, anticipation coursing through him.

That's when Mickey leans over to kiss him. He presses his lips to Ian's and they land unevenly. He's clumsy, like he's not totally sure if he's doing it right, like he's never kissed somebody before, and his hand is trembling when it cups Ian's jaw. He doesn't even give Ian time to kiss him back before he's pulling away. He looks embarrassed at himself and moves to turn away, too, like he's expecting Ian to laugh at him, but Ian grabs his shoulder instead. "Wait, no, c'mere," he murmurs, and tilts Mickey's chin back up to meet him for a second try.

Ian adjusts the angle this time, puts enough pressure so it's not too gentle and not too firm, and they fall into sync naturally. Mickey's hand moves to his hip, curling around it and squeezing. Ian coaxes Mickey with a gentle swipe of his tongue along the seam of his mouth, and Mickey let's him in. He tastes like whiskey and fast food grease, with a hint of bittersweet tobacco smoke.

They part in a daze, searching each other's eyes, and then lean in again at the same time.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry if the smut made you cringe. i've never written a sex scene longer than a sentence until today.
> 
> kudos/comments appreciated. or come find me [on tumblr](http://www.ifisoldmyscars.tumblr.com). :]


End file.
